


The Revenge of the Moustache

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M, POV John Watson, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back from his absence to find that John has grown a moustache. A moustache which he finds extremely objectionable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Revenge of the Moustache

**The Revenge of the Moustache**

 

To be honest, this isn’t the first time he’s woken in the middle of the night to find Sherlock in his room. 

To be still more honest, it isn’t even the first time he’s even woken in the middle of the night to find Sherlock in his _bed_. 

However, and this is alarming, this is the first time that John Watson has woken in the middle of the night to find Sherlock Holmes in his room, on his bed, bending over him and holding a knife to John’s face. 

His sharp intake of breath must have given away the game, that he was awake. Sherlock looks at him, face deceptively peaceful, eyes gleaming in the light coming in from the window. That level of deviousness should be his first clue, but John is sleepy and disoriented and frankly has no idea what the puzzle is, never mind the solution. His face feels wet, in the space between his mouth and nose. He goes to touch it, wondering if his nose is bleeding (surely Sherlock didn’t _cut_ him) but Sherlock stops him. 

“Don’t,” he said, quickly, sharply. “I’m almost finished.”

“You’re – almost – ” This was the wrong thing to say if Sherlock was intending to keep John from touching his face. He understands the instant his fingers touch his upper lip and he goes from sleepy to all the way awake in a heartbeat: his lip is almost entirely bare, save a patch by the left corner, smooth and damp. The fury is instant. “Sherlock!” he shouts, angry beyond belief. “What – the _hell_ do you think you’re doing??”

A stubborn look comes over Sherlock’s face, his chin pushing forward obstinately. “I told you I wasn’t finished,” he says, thoroughly annoyed. “I intend on doing a proper job, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

John gropes for the switch of the lamp on the night table and checks the time, pushing away from Sherlock and sitting up, still touching his face. “That is so far aside from the main point that you have _got_ to be joking,” he says, still incensed. “It is three-thirty in the bloody morning and you’ve snuck into my room to _shave off my moustache_. What the hell makes you think you’ve got the right to do that? And have you considered for five _seconds_ how bizarre that is? Even for you, Sherlock!” This is mean, maybe, but John is extremely upset. 

Sherlock pauses, frowning, those lines at the bridge of his nose furrowing. It’s the look that says he understands what John’s concern is but considers it entirely irrelevant. It another of the Looks That John Finds Annoying, extremely so in this case. “I didn’t like it,” Sherlock says. As though that is an adequate argument. 

“Yes, well, it happens to be _my_ face,” John snaps. “And maybe I don’t particularly _care_ if you don’t like it.”

Sherlock’s lips compress ever so slightly, normally a sign of either repressed anger or repressed hurt. At this hour of the night, John doesn’t know which it is this time and doesn’t care about that, either. “It didn’t suit you at all,” Sherlock says. 

“Thanks,” John says sourly. “It’s really none of your concern.”

Sherlock blinks. (Maybe he does look a tiny bit hurt, John thinks, feeling only a very, very small bit guilty.) He holds the straight blade between two long fingers and makes a vague gesture with it. “Well, it’s mostly gone now,” he says, sounding slightly uncertain. “Do you want to… keep that last bit, or… shall I finish?”

“Give me that,” John says crossly. “I can’t believe I didn’t wake up until just then. Jesus Christ.”

“I put a tranquiliser in your tea before you went to bed,” Sherlock says, utterly straight-faced, not a trace of guilt. “Not a strong enough dosage, apparently.”

John glares at him, takes the razor (Sherlock lets it go without a fight) and gets to his feet. “You said,” he says, more angry than he was even a moment ago, “no more drugs. You said you would never drug me again. Not after Baskerville.”

Sherlock is the picture of maligned martyrdom. In the streetlight, his face is very pale. “I didn’t drug you at Baskerville,” he reminds John. 

“Yeah, well, you tried to, and you still said,” John retorts. “Don’t make me start locking my door at night, or then what will you do when you can’t think except by staring at me sleeping or whatever it is you do in here in the middle of the night. God, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t realise tranquilisers counted as ‘drugs’ in your view,” Sherlock says stiffly, as John stalks out of the room and downstairs to shave off the last centimetre of hair sprouting awkwardly on its own from the corner of his lip, like an uncalled-for facial hair solo. 

***

In the morning, John ignores Sherlock pointedly, still furious, and refuses to admit aloud that he _does_ look better without the moustache. Mary had liked it, and while he wasn’t one to always change his clothes or hair for a girlfriend, she had impressed upon him the idea that a moustache would make him look very dignified. Dignity was so necessary for a doctor, she said, and John had decided to give it a try. 

It annoys him that Sherlock clearly likes it better. He had made it equally clear that he hated the moustache from the start. He’d walked into John’s clinic one day out of the blue, just walked in off the street after a year of John thinking he was dead. John had fainted, and as the other doctors revived him and helped him to a chair, Sherlock apologised profusely, then added, “You’ve grown a moustache. Why?”

John hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. He’d settled for struggling out of the chair and punching Sherlock in the face. 

The other doctors had sent him home, then. He’d left, vaguely embarrassed that so many patients had witnessed it, only to find one of Mycroft’s black cars waiting in front of his flat. He’d stopped at the rear window, waited for Mycroft to unroll it, then said, “Fuck off, Mycroft, and tell Sherlock to fuck off, too. I’m done with the both of you.”

Mycroft, annoyingly, had smiled his smarmy, smug, oily, knowing smile, and said in response, “You’ll feel better in the morning, John. We’ve arranged for your things to be moved back to Baker Street. 221B, isn’t it?”

“You touch my things and I will have you arrested,” John had snapped, fully aware that this was an empty threat on so many levels. 

In the morning, he’d woken up to find Sherlock in his room, sitting on a chair and waiting for him to wake. He was quieter and more apologetic, and after a lot of shouting, a lot more talking and gallons of tea, he grumpily consented to allow Mycroft’s people to effect his move back to Baker Street. Sherlock had avoided all mentions of the moustache for the next three days. 

The fourth day, John caught him peering oddly at his face. They were in the kitchen, John just putting some bread in the toaster when suddenly Sherlock was directly in his personal space, frowning at his face. “What?” John asked, startled. 

Sherlock said nothing, just… _touched_ his moustache as though it were a cockroach, faint traces of distaste on his face. Then he’d moved away and got the sugar bowl, scooping indecent amounts into his tea. The entire thing was just weird and John, frowning himself, decided to just not say anything about it. 

He’d brought it up again once three weeks later, just asked if John wasn’t almost finished with his moustache phase. It was evening and they were in the sitting room, Sherlock scanning articles on a laptop (probably John’s, but John had given up that battle ages ago) while John poked at the Times crossword. John glared, his peaceful mood immediately shattered, and told Sherlock in no uncertain terms that the more he pestered John about it, the longer he would keep it. Sherlock hadn’t said anything in response, just went back to his browsing. That had been a week ago, six weeks from Sherlock’s sudden return. 

And now this. John is angry. It was _his_ moustache, damn it, and he doesn’t care if it was the least becoming thing in the world; it’s his face and if he chooses to grow a row of hair above his mouth just because he can and feels like it, it is his right to do so. It hadn’t taken that long to grow, and admittedly, shaving is easier when he wasn’t trimming around it, but it’s the principle. Sherlock does not own his face. How would he have reacted if John had done something like that to him? John can’t even imagine it. Suddenly he stops in his tracks. Perhaps he should do exactly that, or something like it, and show Sherlock what it feels like. 

He begins to plot. 

***

Taking a page out of Sherlock’s own book, John puts a sleeping pill in Sherlock’s tea that evening. Sample from the clinic. Sherlock drinks three sips, frowns at the tea and asks if John bought a new brand. John had been holding his breath, secretly wondering if Sherlock would somehow recognise the taste of the medication, but realises that the last possible drug Sherlock would recognise would be a sleeping pill. He almost crows with glee. 

“Yeah,” he says casually. “I don’t like it much, either. I should have bought the Twinings but they didn’t have it.”

Sherlock puts the cup down. “I don’t like it,” he announces, complaining. 

Any other time, John would have glared at this bit of rudeness and said something sharp. Now he simply turns a page of his book and says, “Well, any time you want to take over the shopping, you can buy whatever kind of tea you like.”

Sherlock says nothing to this, but slowly sits up on the sofa, yawns, stretches, and wanders off toward his room. “Night,” he says, yawning again. 

John watches him, smirking to himself. At least he drank enough of the tea to have received a strong enough dosage, then. He waits twenty minutes, until Sherlock’s breathing has become deep and slow and regular, then creeps softly into his bedroom with a bowl of warm water, the razor, and some shaving foam, and stealthily shaves off Sherlock’s eyebrows. 

***

“John!” 

His bedroom door is flung upon with undue force, nearly wrenching it from its hinges and John is shaken rudely from a very self-satisfied sleep. His eyes fly open to see Sherlock standing in front of him, looking extremely odd, indeed. It almost takes him a moment to realise how angry Sherlock is with the absence of eyebrows to indicate it. John tries very hard not to laugh. “Oh, good morning,” he tries to say calmly, but immediately ruins it with a prolonged snort of laughter through his nose. 

“John, this is childish in the extreme!” Sherlock says angrily. “I did you and the entire world a favour in ridding you of that ridiculous caterpillar on your face. You have made a complete mockery of me!”

He really is upset, John thinks, but feels wholly unrepentant. “Perhaps you could wear fake ones until they grow back,” he suggests, entirely unapologetic. “Or use an eyebrow pencil or something. You probably have something like that in your collection of disguise make-up somewhere, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s lips press together in definite and extremely petulant wrath. He picks up a vase (Mrs Hudson’s) from the window sill and hurls it at the wall, then stalks out of the room. 

John checks the time, still chuckling to himself. It is only six-thirty, so he goes back to sleep. 

He does feel a little badly later when Sherlock refuses at first to go to a crime scene later because of his face. After dinner, he points out that Sherlock’s hair is actually so long that if he just rearranged it slightly, and possibly wore a hat to keep it in place, no one would notice his temporary lack of eyebrows. 

Sherlock looks forlorn. “Do you really think so?” he asks, like a child missing a birthday party and feeling like the world has ended. 

“Definitely,” John assures him. He bites his lip. “Perhaps you should wear the deerstalker.”

Sherlock scowls and doesn’t speak to him all the way through the investigation that night. 

***

Four days later, he receives a text while at work. _I see you have an appointment for a haircut on Thursday._

John sighs and texts back. _Get OUT of my google calendar right now._ Then, a few minutes later, it occurs to him to ask. _Why, by the way? Do I even want to know?_

Sherlock doesn’t respond. 

When John wakes up on Thursday morning, shivering slightly and feeling hungover and sluggish, he reaches towards his head for no particular reason and discovers that Sherlock has shaved it bald in the night. And judging by the state of his head, drugged him quite heavily to do so. Apparently their no-drugging-each-other ban has been lifted in light of the Hair Wars of Baker Street. He staggers to the small mirror above his dresser and gapes at the sight of himself totally bald. Sherlock left him his eyebrows and nothing else, ironically.

It isn’t terrible, actually, but not what he would have chosen. And it is only March and his head will be cold until the hair grows back, but fortunately his hair has always grown quickly. John decides to say nothing about it at all, not to give Sherlock the satisfaction. Before going downstairs, he calls his barber to cancel his trim. The girl who answers the phone tells him with some confusion that someone else already called on his behalf to cancel it just half an hour ago. John grits his teeth and hangs up. 

Downstairs, Sherlock is still at the kitchen table, instead of having taken himself to the laptop or the sofa or the armchair. Obviously waiting, forcing the confrontation. John is determinedly calm, getting out the milk, making toast, and pouring himself a cup of coffee. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him like laser sights, and he doesn’t look away when John turns around to meet his gaze. John raises his eyebrows, the only hair on his head in question and pointedly says, “Morning.”

“It is,” Sherlock agrees evenly, eyes drifting to John’s scalp. 

John goes over, picks up the spoon beside Sherlock’s plate and uses it to stir the milk in his coffee. He eats his toast and looks at the newspaper without taking in a single word before leaving for the clinic thirty minutes later. As he descends the stairs, he can hear Sherlock’s low laughter from the kitchen, and vows revenge. 

***

The revenge will be elaborate, he already knows. It must be more humiliating than a non-consensual change of facial hair, no eyebrows, or the involuntary neo-Nazi look. (It hadn’t been that hard to hide, in the end; John took to wearing a newsboy cap and liked it so much that he kept wearing it even when his hair had reappeared.) He and Sherlock have never once made reference to any of the hair pranks/acts of revenge since the morning of Sherlock’s outburst about his missing eyebrows. He lets two weeks go by. Surely Sherlock will think that John they are finished now, that no one will be losing any more hair. 

John has practised picking the lock on Sherlock’s bedroom door just in case he has taken to locking it in fear of losing his mop of dark curls. However, the revenge John has planned for him is so much more humiliating than that, and Sherlock won’t even be able to complain about being publicly embarrassed by it… he grins fiendishly to himself when he thinks about it, careful not to think about it in Sherlock’s presence. 

It takes a fair bit of planning, but in the third week, he is ready. Knowing that Sherlock has become suspicious of anything John offers him ever since the eyebrow business, John mixes a tranquilliser into the sugar bowl instead (thinking it a fitting revenge for Baskerville, too), making sure there are exactly two teaspoons of sugar left in the bowl and no more. Sherlock peers into it after dinner and, accurately gauging the amount left, tips the entire contents into his tea cup. John brings up a recent murder in Ireland that had been in the papers and keeps him talking, which makes him drink the tea faster, and waits. The drowsiness hits almost instantly. 

Sherlock slows mid-sentence, then stops talking altogether. His fully-regrown brows come together. “John,” he says thickly, “what have you… oh no. Ohhh… John, I… no… don’t…”

“Easy now,” John says, as Sherlock begins to slide out of his armchair. “Let’s get you to bed.” He hauls Sherlock up and over a shoulder (standard military rescue position) and takes him into his bedroom. Feeling slightly guilty but mostly filled with gleeful anticipation, John strips off his dressing gown, pyjama pants, and t-shirt – everything, in other words – and gently ties his arms and legs down. This is complicated, as there are no spaces in the headboard or footboard of Sherlock’s bed, but he has planned for this and simply ties them together under the bed instead with scarves. One is not long enough, so he has knotted two together for both the hands and the feet. Not too tightly, just enough so that Sherlock won’t be able to stop him should he wake up in the middle of this for some reason. Which he shouldn’t do – his newly hairless state should come as a complete surprise when he wakes in the morning, not tied down but hairless from the waist down. 

John had originally considered only shaving Sherlock’s legs, but after the indignity of being bald for a couple of weeks, he felt his revenge really needed to be stepped up a level. So: legs _and_ genital region, then. In surgery, it was normally nurses who removed body hair beforehand, to lessen the chances of infection, but John had had to do it himself in Afghanistan. He would have used an electric razor, but he didn’t want the noise to wake Sherlock, and besides… after the legs, some delicacy would obviously be needed. 

He starts off slowly, near the ankle of Sherlock’s left foot, feeling intensely silly. It isn’t too late to change his mind, untie Sherlock, and just go to bed and leave this shameful, childish idea behind, but Sherlock would know that he’d been drugged anyway and would be all the more suspicious if he woke up to find that nothing had happened to him. Besides which, John remembers his moustache with a stab of anger. No: Sherlock deserves this. Between the moustache and his hair, he definitely deserves this. John spreads shaving foam over Sherlock’s left calf and thinks to himself that it’s lucky he isn’t particularly hairy. He scrapes the razor over the first leg carefully, gently, not wanting to cut him or wake him. He keeps his eyes firmly on the leg, reminding himself that he is a medical professional and that this is a first-class prank, that there is no need to feel weird about any of this. The left leg is bare to the knee. He starts on the right calf. Sherlock’s legs are long and solidly muscled, a strangely healthy testament to the death-defying life he leads. John shaves the knees with care, then works his way up the thigh of the left leg. 

As he gets closer to the top, his eyes flick guiltily to Sherlock’s bits more than once. Sherlock has never been particularly prudish, frequently wandering about the flat wearing very little, but it’s different when he’s awake, yawning his way from the bedroom to the kitchen to take a bite out of a piece of toast and then into the shower, wearing just his pants, just a sheet, or not-infrequently, nothing at all. John always kept his eyes to himself and reminded himself that he’d certainly seen more in the Army. Now, though, the razor slowly, carefully stroking over the skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh, John notices that it has moved. And now, as he is looking at it, it twitches again and… seems to have expanded a little. Oh, lord. John’s cheeks begin to burn. He shouldn’t be seeing this. Maybe when he gets to shaving Sherlock’s testicles, the cock will shrink in fear and settle down again. And he will never, _ever_ mention that part to Sherlock, no matter how angry he gets about anything in the future. That would just be unfair. He keeps working on the thighs, eyes glancing there every few moments despite himself. It’s only curiosity, he thinks, wresting his eyes from another look that lingered too long. 

He has finished with the legs – Sherlock’s long, smooth legs could almost look like a women’s if they weren’t so muscled and, well, masculine-looking. The knees are too knobbly, the feet too large, the ankle bones too pronounced – no, cancel, these are definitely a man’s legs. And definitely a man’s cock swelling, somewhere between soft and hard, lifted off the skin of his thighs by about an inch now. John hesitates, takes a deep breath, reminds himself that this is a prank, not some twisted, perverted thing, and gingerly slides his fingers under Sherlock’s scrotum to lift the testicles away from the skin. What a tricky thing to shave, the skin all crinkled and loose, the hair decidedly thicker than on his legs. Dismayingly, the instant he touches Sherlock’s testicles, the erection leaps to life from its sleepy start. John looks at it and swallows, Sherlock’s balls still cradled in his fingers. And just like that, he is hard. This prank has officially got out of hand. As it were. He is sitting there, staring at Sherlock’s cock and wondering if he should just untie him now and slink off to his room in shame for what he has done to his best friend, or… continue. 

A start of breath and the sound of a swallow snap John’s attention back, accompanied by several klaxon sirens of alarm: Sherlock is waking. His eyelids are fluttering and he gives a soft moan before opening his eyes and focusing on John. 

John feels like a child caught in the act of stealing candy. He is kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, holding a razor in his left hand and Sherlock’s balls in his right. Sherlock is awake, stark naked and tied spread-eagled to his own bed. John feels like a deer caught in the headlights when Sherlock’s eyes lock onto his, unable to break the guilty stare. He should say something, laugh or something, show how this is all just a joke, but he can’t make a sound. 

Sherlock is much too awake, much too aware. (What went wrong? He should have slept for hours, John thinks, agonised.) Sherlock’s eyes drop to his body, tries pulling a leg free, looks up at his left and then right arms, looks back at his cock and then his eyes travel up to John’s red face. Sherlock swallows again, touches his tongue to his lips. “Just going to leave me like this?” he asks, voice raw and gravelly with sleep. (Or possibly desire. John can’t tell, but given Sherlock’s undeniable erection, the latter is certainly a realistic possibility.)

“Erm – I was just – ridding you of some hair,” he stammers. “You know. Our… our game.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock’s voice scrapes. “Going to finish what you started, then?” His gaze has gone somehow predatory. “Or are you having second thoughts about this?”

This galls John into action and the taunt disperses most of his embarrassment. “Not at all,” he said coolly. “You deserve this, and you know it.”

“I suppose I do,” Sherlock says, not clarifying which part he is agreeing with. His voice has gone sort of lazy and unfocused. Unusual, that. 

John hesitates a moment longer, but doesn’t want Sherlock to think he is chickening out. He focuses on shaving as closely as he can to the testicles, using his thumb to straighten out the skin as he makes small, careful scrapes with the blade. He can feel the balls quivering in his hand, moving internally, can feel the cock straining even harder, lying nearly flat against Sherlock’s pale stomach now, and all of this has made John harder than ever. He can’t explain it at all, but something about Sherlock being so unwittingly aroused by this stupid joke is producing record highs in terms of his own arousal. What he really wants to do is escape to his room to wank frantically and then never, ever, ever think about this ever again. He has to go through with it, though. John lifts the balls to drag the razor under there, and Sherlock _moans_. 

He doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not aroused. He must have decided that the proof has already been given anyway, which of course it has, and that fighting it would be useless regardless, but still – the wanton sound he makes does nothing for John’s attempt at calming, unsexy thoughts whatsoever. He feels his jaw clenching, trying to keep his exhale quiet. He is determined not to lose this game. There is a small thatch of dark hair between Sherlock’s cock and lower belly and John is also determined to get that, to leave no area incomplete. And to not let on for a second that he is unwilling to go through with the prank completely. He uses two fingers to lift the cock again and get the razor in there, too. The cock moves in his fingers and John’s exhalation is no longer silent. 

Sherlock’s eyes open again and lance through John’s like a laser. John knows his face is absolutely flaming scarlet, his mouth full of saliva that he keeps swallowing. He licks his lips without meaning to, with Sherlock’s eyes on him and immediately regrets it. “John,” Sherlock says hollowly. 

“There, I’m about… done,” John says. He looks down and sees that he is still touching Sherlock’s cock. His eyes go back to Sherlock’s, lips parting but no words coming out. 

Their eyes hold for several minutes and then bed shudders at Sherlock succeeds in ripping apart the two scarves tying his legs together under the bed. His knees snap up and grip John, pulling him down without even the aid of his arms, and although John is fully dressed, he can feel Sherlock’s erection against his own through his trousers and pants. He is lying on top of Sherlock – naked, erect Sherlock, wearing all of his clothes and suddenly wishing he wasn’t, because he is incredibly aroused, despite simultaneously drowning in shame. 

Sherlock’s (smooth, hairless) calves are pressing into John’s buttocks, urging him to rock against him, and John finds he is silently complying, hands on the bed above Sherlock’s shoulders for balance. “John,” Sherlock says again, voice an octave lower and even grittier than it had been. “Untie my hands.”

“N-no,” John manages, squeezing his eyes closed. 

“I want to touch you.” The admission comes out with as little guilt or awkwardness as Sherlock’s admission that he had drugged John. It is merely a statement of fact. 

“No,” John repeats. “Just… don’t talk, all right?”

Sherlock’s huff of breath might have been a laugh. He responds instead by arching into John, somehow getting the timing exactly right from the start. His strong legs are pinning John into place anyway, gripping John’s arse and legs against him. John begins to move faster as the desperation grows. He refuses to even think about what is happening right now; all he really cares about at the moment is getting off. Sherlock is breathing faster and harder, eyes raking John’s face. His arms are straining at the scarves, biceps bunching under pale skin. “Open your trousers!” Sherlock intended it as a command, but it comes out too breathy to have the proper effect. 

Nonetheless, John does it, needing the skin-to-skin friction, shoves everything just far enough down to get his cock and balls out where they need to be, which is apparently rubbing directly against Sherlock’s erection. They are both wet already, the wetness helping the slide deliciously. There is a tearing sound as Sherlock wrenches his arms free. He digs into John’s arse with all ten fingers and John groans hard, thrusting madly. He can feel his balls touching Sherlock’s smooth, hairless ones in the most perverted, filthy sensation he has ever experienced. And then one of Sherlock’s long-fingered hands is shoving between them, wrapping around them both and fisting them hard. He clenches his teeth and comes, the come wetting John’s chest but mostly Sherlock’s hand. John thinks fleetingly that Sherlock’s orgasmic face looks exactly like his sudden-understanding face, and with that thought, feels his balls draw up and empty themselves all over Sherlock’s bare chest, his cock spurting come everywhere. It is possibly the hottest, most humiliating thing he has ever done in his life. 

As he pants down at Sherlock, he wonders what on _earth_ he can possibly say now. Should he apologise? Try to explain himself? “Er – Sherlock,” he begins, still breathing hard, “I…”

“Shut up,” Sherlock pants. Moves a hand back to John’s arse. “Just shut up.”

“Uh – okay,” John says uncertainly. 

Sherlock chuckles, still out of breath. “That was brilliant,” he says. “I should have shaved that repulsive moustache off the moment I saw you again, at the clinic. You should have grown one ages ago, just so that I could.”

John wants to glare, but can’t in his post-orgasmic haze. He settles for letting his body relax onto Sherlock’s. “You’re a right bastard,” he says, turning his face onto Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“At least I don’t have a moustache.”

“At least I have eyebrows.”

“At least I have hair.”

“Not on your balls, you don’t.”

“True.” Sherlock turns his head and does something slightly alarming with his teeth to John’s ear. “I think I like it.”

John pauses a little. Then, “I think I do, too.”

Sherlock sounds unendurably smug. “Good.”

John can’t help but feel that his revenge backfired somewhat, and God help him, he will do worse than shave Sherlock’s balls if he so much as breathes the word _moustache_ again, but despite all that, this has turned out rather well after all. 

***

Sherlock listens to John fall asleep, still mostly draped over his chest. He seems quite content at the moment. He imagines this is temporary: when John finds out that Sherlock has scheduled him for an appointment for _Permanent Hair Removal By Electrolysis, Upper Lip_ in his google calendar for the twentieth of April, that will surely change…

 

-fin-

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Revenge of the Moustache](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843780) by [sra_danvers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sra_danvers/pseuds/sra_danvers)
  * [[Cover Art] for SilentAuror's The Revenge of the Mustache](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3289340) by [livloveel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livloveel/pseuds/livloveel)




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